THE LIGHTHOUSEtogether this and that and then this, and so made outof that miserable silliness and spite (she and Charlessquabbling, sparring, had been silly and spiteful) some-thing — this scene on the beach for example, this mo-ment of friendship and liking — which survived, afterall these years, complete, so that she dipped into it tore-fashion her memory of him, and it stayed in themind almost like a work of art.

‘Like a work of art,’ she repeated, looking from hercanvas to the drawing-room steps and back again.She must rest for a moment. And, resting, lookingfrom one to the other vaguely, the old question whichtraversed the sky of the soul perpetually, the vast, thegeneral question which was apt to particularise itselfat such moments as these, when she released facultiesthat had been on the strain, stood over her, pausedover her, darkened over her. What is the meaning oflife? That was all — a simple question; one that tendedto close in on one with years. The great revelation hadnever come. The great revelation perhaps never didcome.

Instead there were little daily miracles, illumina-tions, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark; herewas one. This, that, and the other; herself and CharlesTansley and the breaking wave; Mrs. Ramsay bring-ing them together; Mrs. Ramsay saying ‘Life standstill here’; Mrs. Ramsay making of the moment some-thing permanent (as in another sphere Lily herselftried to make of the moment something permanent)

— this was of the nature of a revelation. In the midstof chaos there was shape; this eternal passing and flow-ing (she looked at the clouds going and the leavesshaking) was struck into stability. Life stand still here,187
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